Reclaiming our Pride

A Journey to Reclaim Warmth and Confidence, One Tiny Victory at a Time

This is my third, and final, essay about my homeless experience—for now, at least. 😉 I’ve truly appreciated the chance to share, and I’m so grateful for the openness of this community in receiving these stories.

And in the spirit of today’s essay, I’d love for you to join me in a little collective celebration at the end: share something—anything—you feel proud of yourself for.

Maybe it’s a tiny triumph from this morning (finally saying “no” to the snooze button) or a milestone you hit ages ago that still makes you smile. The size, shape, or timing doesn’t really matter. What matters is that we take a moment—together—to be proud of ourselves!

Because here’s the truth: no matter what the rest of the world is doing, you’ve accomplished something worthy of recognition. And I want to honor each and every one of you for that—quite literally.

I’ll personally read and cherish every achievement you share, because you deserve to be seen and celebrated.

In fact, I also encourage you to swing by again throughout the day (or the whole week, if you like) to read, reflect, and cheer each other on.

Let’s celebrate one another. Let’s lift each other up. Let’s remind ourselves how far we’ve come, and give ourselves the credit we deserve for all the hard things we’ve done and the resilience we’ve shown.

We are tenacious, we are strong, and we have so much to be proud of—let’s own that, together.

Now, without further ado, let’s go back in time, one last time.

I sat on the floor of my empty studio apartment, the hum of the refrigerator and the flicker of the closet light offering a jittery sort of company. It was all I could focus on, honestly—anything to distract from that hollow, echoing feeling in my chest.

This place felt massive compared to the makeshift tent I once called home. Funny enough, I bet you could fit most of the men I lived with side-by-side in here. Now, that thought should’ve sparked gratitude or relief—after all, I’d finally made it off the streets.

And at first, I did feel elated. But now? Now, I just felt... empty.

I mean, I made it off the streets. I should be proud, right? But instead, it felt like pure luck—like a random stroke of kindness rather than any “hard work” on my part. In a weird way, I felt like I’d cheated.

So I pressed my back against the wall, knees pulled in tight, knife clutched in my hand. This was my new reality—a studio apartment that felt both strange and unearned.

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep there on the floor, caught between the relief of having a roof over my head and the ache of not feeling like I deserved to be under it.

By the time high school graduation rolled around, I was just grateful they let me walk.

Weirdly enough, the thing that nearly held me back was .13 of a gym credit. I remember asking the administrators where everyone was when I went missing:

• Where was the school psychologist to check in on me?

• Where was my gym coach when I was literally running for my life through construction zones—shouldn’t that count toward my mile time?

• Why was a straight-A student (who had already finished his associate’s degree, I might add) allowed to vanish without anyone batting an eye?

Then, miraculously, they “found” that .13 credit buried in my college transcripts.

High schoolers, with their penchant for drama, literally told me they’d assumed I was dead. Some of those same people had bullied me for being gay, long before I was forced to come out. I just stared them down and made sure they knew I was still here, alive and breathing, despite their best efforts.

But I felt no flicker of triumph—just the same dull ache.

My mom and grandma did take me out for a celebratory lunch at Red Robin. Mom, you ask? Yes. I was attempting that thing people call “family reconciliation.” We can talk later about how well that turned out. (Spoiler: Not great.)

Right in the middle of those bottomless fries, I got an incredible phone call: a full-time job offer from an exceptional firm. Thirteen dollars and five cents an hour—plus full benefits. I was so stunned that I ordered another basket of free fries to celebrate.

And then, that night, I went back to my empty room and cried. Because I was barreling into a life I never actually wanted. A full-time job I didn’t care about. No shot at the college experience I’d dreamed of.

I couldn’t feel proud of accomplishing the “impossible.” In just a few short months, I’d gone from being homeless—dirt literally ground into my pores—to having a barely furnished space and a future I wasn’t sure I even wanted. It was progress, yes, but not the kind of progress that filled me with hope.

I fell asleep on my air mattress, back pressed against the wall, with my knife in hand, tucked under my pillow—clinging to the strange comfort of knowing I at least had a roof over my head. I’d “made it,” supposedly. But at that moment, all I could feel was how far off this was from the life I thought I’d lead.

Grief got in the way of feeling proud.

I lost an entire life. That sounds dramatic, but I was one of those kids with a lot going for them. And when circumstances changed, it felt like a dozen doors slammed shut all at once.

In the acute stage—when survival was the only priority—my more primitive instincts kicked in, and I won that battle. But once the dust settled, I realized there was a whole war going on inside me.

And I was losing.

Luckily, my shiny new job benefits landed me in therapy, where I discovered I was basically a hot mess…haha. But one of the first things my therapist suggested was naming something I’d accomplished, no matter how small, and practicing feeling proud of it.

At first, it felt impossible. I was stuck in a world of dull aches and emptiness, convinced I didn’t deserve to feel good about anything. But as I kept practicing (for months…), something started to shift.

I remember one day, sitting in my therapist’s softly lit office, saying, “Today, I’m just proud that I made it here. It was a tough morning, and I almost didn’t get out of bed. But I’m here.” And then I smiled. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a little warmth bubble up inside me.

She smiled, too. “Thank you for sharing that, Alex. You did make it here. I noticed that you smiled. How does that feel?”

“Um. I feel… really good?”

“Great. But what does this mean?”

Ah, that damn question. I took a breath. “I’m feeling warm. Lighter. My heart feels really fluttery.” As soon as I said it, I let out a huge sigh, like I’d been holding it in for ages.

That night, I went home, microwaved some leftover pizza, and caught my own reflection in the mirror. Quietly, I said, “Hey, I’m proud of you for making it off the streets. That was really hard. You went through some tough shit.”

And there it was—a flicker of genuine pride. I actually watched my posture shift in real time: I stood a little taller, my shoulders relaxed, and my face softened. I felt something warm in my chest that I hadn’t noticed for a long, long time.

I fell asleep on my IKEA mattress, my knife tucked in my nightstand.

So, let me kick off our little collective celebration with a note to my eighteen-year-old self. The one who thought that he didn’t earn his empty apartment. The one that wrote off, for so long, every little tiny thing he accomplished as unimportant.

Hey you -

I’m proud of you.

I see you, sitting there, convinced that everything’s been ripped away in a single night. You thought you found safety, and then you lost even more. Every door that was wide open suddenly slammed shut, and honestly, no one would’ve blamed you if you just gave up right then and there.

But that’s not what you did.

Instead, you found people who truly had your back. You pieced together a plan. Day by day—through rain, snow, sleet, and blood—you kept going. When walls popped up, you figured out how to climb them or tear them down. And despite every setback, you triumphed.

I know how many times you wanted to cry but didn’t, because you thought weakness was off-limits. I know how often you felt tempted to end it all, but something inside you refused to let go. I know how many times you wanted to numb out with drugs, but you held on to who you truly were instead. Sure, you messed up sometimes, but when it mattered most, you made the right call.

Because of you, we survived. Because of you, I can stand here now and say: we thrived. You held onto that spark of hope when it would’ve been easier to let it slip away. You refused to let the world’s harshness decide your worth.

So, yeah—I’m fucking proud of you. Of your tenacity, your determination, and your unwillingness to abandon your future, even when it felt impossible to see one at all.

-Dr. Alex

(^^^^THAT’S RIGHT - IT STILL HAPPENED - we are just not that kind of doctor)

Now, let’s bring this full circle.

Earlier, I asked you to celebrate something—anything—you feel proud of. This is your invitation. Let’s practice together, just like I did all those years ago.

It can be a tiny step or a massive leap. You decide. What matters is that you name it, honor it, and let yourself feel that warmth.

So… what are you proud of?

Let’s celebrate it—and each other—right here, right now.

About Alex

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

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